


Spartacus Now

by Weiila



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weiila/pseuds/Weiila
Summary: Sometimes, the Marauders manage to catch something big. Which is bad for everyone involved. Very bad. Sig tells the story of such a time to a bar full of Wastelanders, with additional storytellers butting in.





	1. Chapter 1

He came to again slowly, roused by the agitated voices above him.

    The first thing he became aware of past the voices was the deep ache pulsating from the back of his head. His tongue felt like a piece of parchment – yet he did not make a sound. Perhaps he couldn’t have, because of how dry his throat was. But even before he began to regain consciousness he knew that something was wrong.

    Through the buzz in his head, words soon started to make sense again.

 “… no fucking way. No _fucking_ way! You gotta be smoking-”

 “I’m telling you, he’s the real thing!”

 “Lookit the hair! An’ that armor!”

    Armor… right. His armor was gone. Not a good sign. Neither were the voices, because he could swear that he recognized the ones arguing to know him.

    It was hot, unbearably so; superheated sand beneath him and the sun pressing in on all other directions. He may very well lose consciousness again and die while the men argued about who he was.

    Tactic is of no use if you die trying to enact it, he had to grudgingly face that fact. It dictated he should not let possible enemies know that he was awake, but all his senses were screaming for water.

    No choice.

    He groaned, the sound making it out of his throat like a harsh whisper.

 “Hey, _hey_! He’s awake.”

    The argument came to a halt.

 “What do we do?”

 “Keep him alive, idiot!”

    There was a hard smack and a curse.

 “Shut up!”

    Somebody kept grumbling, but shadows moved against his eyelids and blocked out the searing red of the sun. Hands grabbed his arms, lifting him into a sitting position. Gloves.

    While it was a relief to get away from the hot sand, the movement let him know that he could not move his arms. They were locked behind his back, rough material digging into his skin. Bad. Very bad.

    He cracked his eyes open, trying to see something. But there were only brown and blue colors melding into each other.

    One of the shades in a darker shade moved closer and a lukewarm, moist circle was pressed to his lips. Pride made a brief protest, but drowned in survival instincts – if he was a prisoner he still needed to live. Therefore he quickly swallowed what little water he was allowed before the flask was taken away. Only enough to keep him alive.

    The voices started up again, closer now.

 “I still don’t think it’s him.”

 “Keep your damn trap shut, you never went to Spargus anyway.”

 “Yeah, but-”

 “So shut it! It’s him. Hot damn.”

    He blinked, the water helping to clear his garbled senses a bit. His sight cleared somewhat, letting him see what was in front of him.

    Rough leather and crude armor, spikes to make up for lack of proper protection and to look intimidating. Masks lifted, perched atop the wearers’ heads now that protection wasn’t needed. The battle was over.

    Marauders.

    He clenched his teeth even harder.

 “Heh!” one of the ones arguing to know him snorted. “No wonder they fought like crazy.”

    His mind cleared a little more at the hint, enough to let him remember. Seem’s plea for help with the metal heads that had invaded the temple. The battle in the halls. The journey back towards Spargus.

    The attack.

 “Get your hands off him!” somebody snarled in the background. A more familiar voice, snarling support.

    Another voice shouted a demand for silence, followed by a thump and a growl of pain. Others cried out in defense, but so few of them. His heart sank, realizing how many must have been lost. But he did not let it show, glaring at his captors. They smirked down at him, empowered by the ropes that held him.

 “What, you only let your men speak for you these days?” one of them taunted.

 “I don’t speak to sewer rats.”

    The butt of a sword instantly connected with his temple, sending dancing stars across his vision. He struggled not to fall over, but somebody grabbed a handful of his hair and forced him back.

 “You’re the one kneeling before us rats now.”

    He would have spat, but his mouth was too dry. Maybe the intention was clear enough, for the sword hit him again. He heard the angry shouts in the background, but his world went black.

    He woke up again in the back of one of their cars. Three marauders were practically sitting on him, one holding a sword to his neck to make sure he could not move. They seemed to have agreed on his name.

    Not being able to do much he ignored them, staring up at the clear blue sky. Wisps of sand torn up by the other cars disturbed the azure and the sun blared too hotly behind him. After a little while he closed his eyes again, wondering if anyone had managed to set of their beacons. Not that it would, could matter much now. The amulets had surely been taken away.

    At that thought he gritted his teeth, considering just how much that must have been taken.

    The journey dragged on, but eventually the vehicles rolled into a cooler area. He looked up in an attempt to see, and a mountain range rose up just within sight to his right.

    The sky’s blue was tinted yellow now, by the sinking sun.

    After a while the cars suddenly stopped. Shouts were heard further ahead, and eventually there was a rumbling sound, like a gate opening. They moved again, out of the evening glow and into the enclosing darkness of a cavern. For a few minutes the only sources of light were ahead, from the cars’ headlights.

    It all made sense then, a tunnel system to hide and protect the bandits against assaults and storms.

    Finally the darkness parted in torchlight, and the walls spread out into a cave. There the cars stopped, and his guards stood up to drag him out of the vehicle.

 “Hey, any game?” somebody further in called.

 “Oh yeah, a big one!” one of the men holding his bound arms called back. “Check this out!”

    Steps approached, but he hardly spared a glare nor listened to the new round of “no way!”. Glancing around he tried to make out the other prisoners in the poor light, lips stiffening further when he saw the handful of survivors stagger under their wounds, roughly shoved about by their capturers. While grateful that some still lived, there was little relief in seeing in the spoils in this situation, all their fates at the whims of men who hated them.

    They snarled and struggled with their guards even while bound and hurt – but meeting his gaze they glanced the other way. Ashamed to be alive, to be imprisoned when they should have given their lives rather than let this happen.

    He could give them no encouragement, for the shame was his as well.

    Then suddenly a rope was laid around his neck and he recoiled with a snarl, wondering for a moment if they intended to hang him. Behind him curses from the other prisoners were struck down by kicks and punches, but he still felt grateful for their support.

    One of the guards shoved him forwards and the rope stretched, forcing him to continue.

    He stumbled at first but found his footing, straightening up and following the steps of the marauder who intended to drag him forwards. Not even until he could find a way to fight back would he allow them to think him weak, neither for his warriors nor for his own sake. So he walked with his head high even in such a disgraceful situation, glaring cold annoyance at the smug marauders surrounding him.

    His silent refusal to show defeat annoyed them, earning him the occasional punch and smack with the flat side of a blade. He bore it with as much silence as he could, then returned to the same stiff expression.

    In the back the other prisoners continued to struggle, letting him know that they were still with him. That they recognized his attempts to give them hope. From an outside perspective it was probably a pathetic exchange, but it meant a lot to those involved.

    They left the garage cavern behind, starting down a tunnel tilting downwards. The smoke of torches hung thick in the air, scratching at his dry throat and eyes. He struggled not to let the discomfort show. He wouldn’t give them an inch.

    The tunnel soon widened, taking off into forks and paths through the wall. The further in they came, the more people appeared around them, many of them stopping to stare. There were mostly marauders with their spikes and lifted masks, but every now and then something else came into view.

    A shocked look from a familiar face, a gasp, a growl. On occasion, a clink of chains.

    People thought lost and dead, instead enslaved. He met their gazes, a crack in his own indifferent mask. But they straightened up under his gaze, despite bruises and chains – wearing the proof of their continued rebellion with new pride. This of course earned them punches, but they bore it with the silence he presented. 

    Finally the sound of laughter and loud talking grew from some point further down the tunnel, and the underground path widened into a chaotic cavern. Chaotic because it was a mess; people sitting on the floor or around the huge stone tables spread about, eating and drinking whatever got into reach. Slaves ran around with baskets and jugs, replacing shatter clay plates and goblets the best they could.

    The talking began to still when the prisoners were brought in. The people on the floor stood to see, and slowly a murmur spread across the room, building up to a growl. A slave dropped a basket of dried meat as she caught sight of the prisoners, spilling the contents over the floor. Nobody cared.

    Suddenly a goblet flew through the air and hit his head, the clay shattering on the floor a second later. He staggered and a roar of laughter rose up, mingled with the other prisoners and several slaves crying out in rage.

    For a moment it looked like a trend had been started, but a shout from deeper inside halted the hands reaching for things to throw.

    He was still blinking to get his bearings straight when he was dragged forwards again. At least it seemed to only be water running down his face.

    By the head of the largest table sat a marauder dressed in slightly finer leather – that wasn’t saying much, of course – and a look of annoyance on his face. His crude armor was a bit more elaborate, bits of precursor metal fitted in here and there. They seemed to have been taking great pains to ensure proof of leadership.

    The annoyance dissipated when the silent prisoner was brought close enough to recognize – a spark of recognition showing in the bound man’s eyes as well. It seemed the leader at least would not need convincing about whom had been caught. If so, he must have been amnesiac.

    The name slipped the prisoner’s mind, but he did recall the face as one twisted in fury, shouting profanities when the gate of Spargus closed in front of him forever. To have him thrown out had apparently not been a misguided choice, if he had made it to the head of the marauders.

    The rope dragging the prisoner onwards slackened, he was allowed to stop. The men glared at each other. In the end, the marauder got to his feet. He stood taller, but even when forced to look up the prisoner showed nothing but disdain.

    By now the entire hall was silent, apart from the sparkle of torches. Breaths held, waiting for either of the leading characters to speak.

    Finally it was the marauder who started, when it became apparent that the prisoner certainly wouldn’t.

 “Pardon me for not knowing the proper conduct of diplomacy,” he said, “but I would have thought it appropriate to send an emissary if you intended to establish contact.”

    The elaborate language and high strung tone elicited amused chuckles from the other bandits. The main prisoner did not grant as much as an eye roll for the parody. Even so, the leader’s amusement was too great to be halted by this.

 “But since you are gracing us with your own _grand_ presence, I assume it is my duty to welcome you to the marauder haven.”

    He crossed his arms, scarred face a horrendous mask in the flickering light and shadows as the yellowing teeth showed in a grin.

 “I hope our accommodations is not below your dignity, lord Damas.”


	2. Chapter 2

“It don’t matter where you go, cherries,” Sig said, lip curling half in amusement, half in distaste. “There’s always that guy who loves to play the taunt game.”

    Jak nodded with the weight of personal experience, but the motion was detached. His fingertips drummed against the table before him, a few inches from his forgotten drink. It was probably lukewarm by this time, but he didn’t care.

    Few probably cared at this point, proven by the fact that there were several mugs standing on the table. All of them put down by people who had found something more interesting than drinking. Every now and then somebody took an absentminded sip, but the frequency of even that had drastically dwindled in the last couple of minutes.

    It couldn’t be good for business. And yet, the bartender herself did nothing to dissolve the attraction which ate up her costumers’ attention. Heck, she had recently relocated to one of the nearby tables herself, to listen.

 “Well?” Daxter impatiently – and croakily – asked from his seat beside Jak’s hand. “What happened next?”

    From the agreeing murmur of the other wastelanders, the ottsel was voicing more than just Jak’s edginess.

    What had started as a regular evening in the Black Oasis bar had – mainly thanks to Daxter having a sore throat hindering him from telling any wild tales – turned into a quite interesting assembly. It had just been the ottsel, Jak and Sig by their table when the senior wastelander suddenly asked, noticing Daxter’s annoyance with the silence:

 “Did you ever hear ‘bout that time Damas got captured by marauders?”

    They had most certainly not.

    And by the nearby tables, several of the other patrons of the bar had perked up – either to grin in recognition or blink in disbelief. From there, it seemed as if the entire bar had assembled to listen.

    Regardless if they knew the rest of the story or not, Sig tortured them all by taking a few deep gulps of his beer before continuing the tale.

 “Well, Damas ain’t one to give’m no leeway, no matter what. Not much he could though, since they’d used enough rope to tie up a grunt…”

 “They could’ve hung him upside down and he still wouldn’t be rattled,” came a hoarse female voice from another table, followed by a round of nasal chuckles.

    The wastelander woman grinned as people glanced over at her – a disturbing display because of the scars crisscrossing her face. She didn’t say it, but the victory sign spoke enough; “damn straight, I was there”.

    But when Sig gave her an amused look of askance, she waved her hand at him.

 “Go ahead, you’re doin’ a better job than I could. Stop grilling the babies, go on.”

    An agreeing murmur let Sig know that that would be sorely appreciated. He caught Jak’s eye and had to stifle a chuckle at the subdued excitement – golden boy was listening like a kid, and loving every excruciating moment of not knowing how the tale would end.

    Even with the amusement though, Sig knew when a good story had been paused long enough.

 “So the leader’s tryin’ to rattle Damas, and…”

 

* * *

  

 “Only a fool would expect me to beg for mercy,” Damas said.

    Despite the ropes and his shorter stance he looked like he was simply watching an annoying bug, waiting for it to get close enough to swat aside.

    However, though he would not show it, he was acutely aware of having to bend his neck slightly backwards when with a sharp rasp, the leader drew his sword out of its sheath. Damas could assume that the state of his throat suddenly seemed a lot more interesting to most of the room.

 “I ain’t expecting you to,” the leader said. 

    The atmosphere was transformed in an instant. Where there had been interest and restrained rage, there was now growing excitement and horror.

    Damas said nothing.

    The other prisoners stood still, but glances were flung between them desperately. Looking for an opening, knowing that a cry for mercy for their king may only serve to egg the marauder on. And Damas would never forgive them.

 “Your ‘men’ don’t seem to care much about you, your lordship,” the leader said, weighing in on the fact that there were a couple of women among the prisoners.

    The king of Spargus remained silent, but his mind was piling up tactics.

    Nobody was trying to hold him still, either they counted on the ropes restraining him from ducking an assault or they expected him to try something. All it would take to bring him off balance would be a tug of the rope around his neck – doing that may just tighten it enough to strangle him. They may want that too.

    Giving the rabble that much credit for planning might have been too generous, but he could not afford to underestimate them. No matter how much their leader liked to play moron.

    Regardless, a moron with a sword is still one who can become a problem.

    A fight was bound to fail even if he could somehow get himself and the others free – which in itself was a hope beyond uselessness. Damas himself was not wounded, but the rest of his warriors had received rougher treatment.

    He mentally gritted his teeth. Even if he wasn’t bleeding, the past desert heat and the thick, hot air of the caverns clawed at his stamina for lack of water. The only reason he could still stand so straight and unwavering was thanks to the small amount of light eco the monks had insisted he’d make use of in the temple. He had not needed it then, but now it simmered deep down, reaching into his weakened body. It would not be able to keep him up forever, though.

    It was pretty sad, having to use an inborn ability of channeling eco just to be able to glare up at a marauder, but he really could not do much else for the time being.

 “Nothing to say? What happened to all those speeches you held in Spargus?”

 “I save my words for the people of Spargus,” Damas said, pointedly turning his gaze from the leader.

    But even his controlled indifference cracked by the next words, eyes slipping back straight ahead and narrowing despite himself.

 “Yeah, ‘til we ain’t suiting you no more, then you throw us out,” the leader said. He spat on the floor. “You ain’t no better than Baron Praxis.”

    From all over the hall came delighted, cruel chuckles and whistles in agreement. One of the prisoners cursed and twisted against his ropes in rage, but he was sent sprawling by a heavy backhand.

    Damas could almost hear his own jaw creak from the tension, but still he did not reply. Both silence and protest would serve the marauders’ amusement, but he would not serve them the delight of seeing his anger – if he spoke now, he honestly doubted that he could keep the rage out of his voice.

    Either way they would not buy a single argument he could give, they did not want to. The only thing this served was to bait him.

    A couple of seconds passed in silence.

 “Nothing ‘bout that either?” the leader finally said. He shrugged, showing off his yellow teeth in a grin. “I guess that’s agreement.”

    The hall exploded with laughter and catcalls, the other bandits apparently finding this statement deliciously amusing. Damas clenched his bound hands even tighter.

    Stay calm. Stay calm.

    He was about to start counting to ten in an attempt to keep his cool when something small, colored in metallic reddish, swung within his vision. It was too familiar not to make him cut his gaze to it, unable to stop himself.

    A pair of lying drops, one resting above the other, and their sharp tips sticking out from the oval shape they formed together. The amulet his son had worn when he was lost, the symbol his wife still hang on to in the gloom, embittered and silent.

    But that amulet was most definitely–

 “Is this yours, yer lordship?” the intruding marauder said, smirking as he dangled the accessory a few inches from Damas’ nose.

   – his.

    The laughter increased, the leader smirking approval at his dog’s mocking of the prisoner, at Damas’ narrowed eyes.

    His son. His wife. His home.

    Now even his life, from the look of it, about to be snatched away by the same smirking shadows.

    Nobody seemed to see it coming, but they really should have. One moment Damas was just standing there, glaring at the leering marauder.

    And in the next moment, without any visible connection between standstill and action, the leer was gone in a howl of pain because the king of Spargus had buried his teeth in the dirty arm.

 

* * *

  

The bar filled up with a half impressed, half disbelieving murmur.

 “Did he really do that, though?” Sig said, looking at the woman who had been in the marauder hiding hole.

    She had butted in with the storytelling in the last couple of minutes. At Sig’s question she raised her only remaining eyebrow. He shrugged.

 “Peeps tell it different,” he said.

    Her fist smashed into the table, which may have rattled it more had it not been made of stone.

 “Hell yeah, he did! It was hilarious!”

 “Sounds a few notches below dignified for a guy like Damas,” Daxter croaked, arms folded across his chest. 

    Jak said nothing, but he silently agreed. And he could do so knowing from having been reduced to such animalistic tactics himself. He didn’t want to imagine Damas sinking his mind low enough to attack like a beast.

    His hands had at least finally managed to relax – they had started to hurt after a while, after he clenched them bloodless and could not stop after hearing about the marauder comparing Damas to Baron Praxis.

 (“Should you really say stuff like that happened?”

 “Damas doesn’t banish people for telling the truth.”

 “No, he’ll bleedin’ kill you.”

 “Hey, I don’t agree what the bastard said, ‘m jus’ repeating it. Makes it funnier when he gets what’s comin’!”)

 “That amulet of his is a sore spot,” Sig said, waving a huge, diplomatic hand at the ottsel.

    For a moment it looked like Daxter would ask more about it, but he caught Jak’s eye and sat back. Jak too, in all honesty, wanted to know what the amulet was, but for the moment the story felt more pressing. He could ask later.

    Unaware that he would spend years kicking himself for forgetting about it until it was too late.

    It seemed to be the general consensus of the audience that question time was over, as murmurs demanding continuation arose from the crowd.

 “’Course, the marauders sure didn’t follow that tune well…” Sig started again, picking up with the story that went with Damas attacking first. Any version of the tale led to the same result, anyway. 

 

* * *

 

The surprise could only last for so long. Regardless of their by necessity antiqued lifestyle, the marauders were trained warriors.

    With a snarl the leader raised his sword, but just as it fell Damas tore himself backwards – still with his teeth in the other marauder’s arm. The victim, trying to tear himself free and unbalanced, did not expect the tug. He fell along with the king, and the sword crushed into his shoulder instead of Damas’ neck.

    The howl of pain died only momentarily by shock and loss of air, then returned in even harsher force. Damas caught sight of the amulet as it hit the floor and bounced beneath the marauder’s writhing form, but he had no time to care about it. The same marauder had also held the rope laid around his neck, giving the king a little bit of momentary freedom – but he was off balance already.

    Spitting blood and dirt he staggered, finding his footing just in time to see the leader leap over the fallen marauder, blood-splattered sword raised. Damas sidestepped, narrowly ducking the second assault. The leader missed a pace but then spun around, face a mask of fury as his presumed victim backed further away. People sitting and standing nearby were falling over themselves trying to get out of the way, some of them slipping under the table.

    But those who were not standing close enough to risk getting hit, they were enjoying the show immensely. A roar was building up, shaking the hall as Damas avoided another blow. They could see that he was weakened, struggling to compensate for his tied arms.

    There was another roar, furious shrieks as the prisoners fought against their guards, desperately trying a joint attack. Trying to get to their liege. Blades met their throats and they were pushed back, their view of the fight hidden behind countless marauders’ backs. They could only listen to the cheers.

    Damas kept backing, but there was nowhere to go. The spectators were quickly closing up a circle around him and their leader – cautiously wide, but massive. And all that was needed to end it all was a slight misstep.

    His opponent had stopped lashing out, instead following Damas step by step at a slight distance and waiting for an opening.

    Nobody expected a clay jug to suddenly fly through the air. Several bystanders shouted a warning and the leader leapt to the side on instinct, but the heavy projectile collided with his arm. His sword hit the floor with a metallic crash, just a moment after the jug shattered against the ground. A slave woman shot past the crumbling warrior, eyes wild and an obviously stolen dagger in her hand.

    Another familiar face, but hollow and worn from the last time she had been seen in Spargus – Damas could not tell how long ago. Armor exchanged for a simple, rough dress, she was a mere shadow of her old warrior self.

    But she tried.

    She knew the assault was hopeless, just as much as Damas did. And still he turned, and she sliced at the ropes binding him.

    Two slices only, then she was torn away, enraged cry drowning in the marauders’ growls as countless hands grabbed Damas. A kick to the back of his leg sent him sprawling, but he was ripped back up on his knees only to see the woman struggling against the men who held her.

    She met his gaze in an instant. There was no fear, only rebellious fury.

    Then a sword fell, and she screamed. A short last shriek – then nothing. The marauders let go, letting her fall to the floor into a growing pool of her own blood.

    He couldn’t even remember her name.

 

* * *

  

The part-time storyteller lady sighed, raising her until now neglected mug of something. 

 “Good old Spair,” she said, taking a sip. When she put the drink back down, her tone was less somber. “Pretty stupid, but if ya really want to go in a blaze of glory…”

    From the looks she got, she was only half-excused for pausing the story again. Snorting, she shrugged and kept her peace.

    Before he went on, Sig glanced about just to make sure of how people were taking this part of the story – especially Jak. Sig had not meant for the marauders comparison between Damas and Praxis to be brought up at all earlier, but somebody in the crowd had shouted it anyway. It couldn’t be helped now.

    Jak was as easy to read as ever. Tense as a bowstring, but so eager to hear the continuation that his eyes were practically glowing. Even Daxter looked like he had no interest in butting in. Actually, Sig could not recall a single time when the ottsel had spent such a long time silent. At least when he wasn’t sleeping.

 

* * *

 

 

Damas growled and twisted when a hand grabbed his hair and ripped his head back, but there were too many of them holding him. Then a cold line of pain dug into his throat and a harsh breath escaped through his teeth. Whoever held the sword pressed just a little harder, spiking Damas’ racing pulse further.

    Faces everywhere, enraged, triumphant, shouting approval at the sight of a speck of crimson seeping up against the metal edge.

    A loud curse broke the spell momentarily and the swordsman hurriedly backed away. The leader came into view, good hand cradling the arm where the jug had hit. Face a mask of anger, but his expression grew more smug again at the sight of Damas brought to his knees.

    But the warrior king spoke first.

 “Spargus has no use for a lost king.”

    A warning tug at his hair made him cringe, but he did not let the pain stop him.

 “Don’t imagine that you’ll get anything for me,” he hissed.

    He had no doubt that they would try blackmailing the city with such an ace in their hands. Neither did he doubt that what he said could be proven wrong, even if he knew some purists in Spargus certainly could demand that the city was more important than a single individual.

    What he didn’t know for sure was which side would be more vocal.

    But he’d be damned if he’d let Spargus pay for his sake.

 “I dunno…” the leader said.

    He bent forwards just a little.

 “Watching you die sounds really damn rewarding.”

    To the sound of rising laughter, several swords were drawn. Expectant eyes turned to the leader, hoping for the signal to cut down the grim prisoner.

    But the marauder chief shook his head. He let go of his arm, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

 “Take him down,” he said, the last speck of anger evaporating in a hideous smirk.

    Damas was hauled to his feet and pushed forwards, hardly able to take a step on his own for all the hands all too willing to help him move. Somebody at least had the sense to pick up the rope still around his neck, saving him from being strangled by somebody stepping on the dangling end of it.

    He had to admit to himself, things were really looking bad.  


	3. Chapter 3

"An' from there, it's all hearsay," Sig admitted, shrugging slightly. "Damas din't tell much an' the rest of us were-"

"Speak fer yerself," a rough voice cut in. "You were messin' in Haven while the rest of us worked."

Kleiver lumbered through the crowd, the other wastelanders pushing each other to get out of the way. Despite rolling his eye at the jibe, Sig didn't protest.

A chair was quickly abandoned for Kleiver's huge frame, and he looked around to catch the barkeep's eye before sitting down. She got the message and stood, heading for the bar.

Jak and Daxter exchanged glances, silently agreeing that the prospect of this new storyteller did not seem very appealing. They were probably not alone, but nobody felt suicidal enough to protest. Not even Daxter, thanks to a warning scowl from his best friend.

If it meant that he got to hear the whole story, Jak could deal with Kleiver telling it.

The blond mustache rose slightly as the huge man smirked.

"Hoo," he grunted, then leant back a little on his chair. "It sure wus a circus…"

* * *

In a time of crisis, there really was no time for nonsense. There was a backup leader for a time like this. The problem currently being, he wasn't in town. In such a situation, a simple council formed – a handful men and women holding administrative positions in the city.

Normally, the King of Spargus had the final word in everything, but there are limits to what one person can do. And as such, there was a head of the doctors, an overseer of the hunting and foraging, and so on and so forth. Even a representative for the monks was there, clutching a communicator from which Seem's hoarse voice struggled to make itself heard all the way from the precursor temple. But everyone else were also voicing their thoughts.

This kind of situation was the one thing they had all feared deep down, and in the back of their minds, everyone had always had some vague idea about what they would suggest. The problem was, none of them had actually believed it could happen, and formulating their viewpoint amidst all the others proved difficult.

They had all been violently roused from their work and come to the throne room on their own, on a silent agreement. The messenger that had sought them out – he too in a state of panic – had only given the piece of news and rushed on. By now, half the town probably knew, either from him or the guards who had sent him – hardly an hour after the distress signals had been sent. Precursors knew what the guards of the beacon trackers had done after realizing what the sudden cluster of calls for help meant.

Nobody knew how to handle it, and there was a great risk for unrest if they did not reach a decision soon. Spargus was not used to being without a strong leader.

But there was already unrest in the throne room.

The argument was divided between those who dared not believe that Damas could still be alive, and those who did. Among those two groups, everyone was questioning whether the attackers had been metal heads or marauders.

If it had been metal heads, there was no hope. That didn't even have to be discussed. But the possibility of marauders was just as real. Some wanted to know what they should do in a situation where the marauders would demand tribute for Damas' life – or Spargus' right to bury their King. Some of them thought it was idiotic to even think about that now, when the citizens needed to know what was going on, and what they should do.

They should send for Sig, but he couldn't get here quick enough. He could make a decision over a communicator. But they didn't know if he had a right to rule. What the hell did that matter in this situation?

Somebody had to be sent out and investigate the place of attack. Seem assured that a troop of monks were already on their way. What if it was a trap? It was a risk they had to take.

What should they do?

The idleness tore at them all, they had to take action. But with so little known, they had to wait.

If they waited longer, it could be too late. It probably already was too late.

Even if they moved out, what would it help? All the war amulets of the lost troop were still in the place were they had been activated – their owners were either captured or dead; still lying in the sand face down or in the belly of a giant lizard. If there were any survivors, by some miracle, Spargus would know only when the monks reached the site.

The monks could very well find Damas' corpse too, from the look of it. Unless he had been chomped up or taken away, dead or alive. Like the marauders would let us know whether he's alive? Don't get started on that again.

You all know that Damas would declare that the city came in first place. We need to come up with something to tell the people.

What should we do?

"Shut the hell up!"

A gigantic hand smashed into the elbow rest of the empty throne. All heads turned to find, with some discomfort, Kleiver standing beside the imposing chair. His mustache tipped in disgust, he scowled to make sure he had the attention. Then he reached behind the throne and picked up a small box of precursor metal, bound to the floor by a spiral cord.

With a low clicking sound, Kleiver crushed down a button on the microphone and raised the device to his face.

"Attenshun, citizens of Spargus. We've got ourselves a situation."

The makeshift council members exchanged uncertain glances, but none moved to stop Kleiver – in a mix of knowing better than to protest, and being glad at seeing somebody grab hold of the situation. Still, there was a certain feeling of doom about having that particular man's voice boomed out through the simplistic speaker systems across the city.

"It seems Damas has gone missing on us. Peeps in his troop suddenly turned on their war amulets out there, an' nobody's picking up the communicators. Seem's goin' out to check out the place, but until then, we dun' know nuthin'."

Everything was silent, apart from Kleiver's growling explanation and the trickle of water. Far below, people were probably standing on the streets and in their apartments, staring towards the speakers and clutching their weapons.

Kleiver's voice deepened.

"An' I jus' wanna make one thing clear, ya inbreeds. With Damas gone and Sig in Haven, _I_ run this joint!"

Like a cold wind, a smell of fear swept across Spargus.

Kleiver waited for a moment for that to sink into every last warrior below. Then he looked at the paling people before him one by one, before lifting the mic to his fat lips again.

"But I'm telling ya'll right now, I ain't gonna sit here and wait for the girl scouts to make their report. We're gonna head out and pick up our king. Or just mash every bleedin' marauder and metal head we can find. All of ye living in the southeast end o' town can stay here an' guard the city. Everyone else, git to yer cars!"

It was probably not what they had all expected.

But from the sturdy buildings and dusty streets, a cheering war cry rose up.

If Damas had heard an order to leave Spargus that vulnerable, he would have gone ballistic.

But Damas wasn't there.

Without sparing the others another glance, Kleiver marched to the elevator. But when every last one of the council members turned and followed him, faces set in determination, he did offer a wicked grin.

Still, he did not much feel like grinning, though he'd never admit that he was… just a _little_ … uneasy.

Of course, it was just because he liked what he did, and he had no desire whatsoever to pick up administration of the whole friggin' city even for the time it would take for Sig to get in gear. Too much trouble.

Really.

He was the first out of the elevator, imposing bulk creating a void around himself even in the flood of warriors rushing past on the main street outside. Scarred faces, muscular arms, imposing weapons strapped on their backs – and expressions varying between grim and excited, but always tainted with a good deal of worry.

Too bad Damas would have them all flogged if he knew that they were abandoning everything for his sake. Kleiver mentally shrugged. They could deal with that problem if it arose.

He'd prefer if it did, actually.

Looking up at the sky, he scowled a little deeper than usual. It was still light, but evening was creeping closer by the minute. Unless they made it to the site of the attack within a couple of hours, finding any precious tracks could turn out to be even more difficult. At least, no storm seemed to be brewing.

* * *

Kleiver took a pause to take a deep gulp from the ale mug the bartender had brought him during the last minutes of storytelling. All around, wastelanders were exchanging glances – reminiscing grins adorning those who recalled the mad rush.

Daxter chose this moment to pipe up.

"Hey now," he started. "What's with all the talk about Sig?"

Jak, too, had been eying the dark man beside him for a while, but Sig had given no clue further than a slanted smile.

It seemed like Kleiver did not think this worthy of a reply, as he just cocked a non-existent eyebrow and took another sweep of his drink.

"Damas chose me for his heir 'case somethin' goes wrong," Sig said.

The surprised look on Jak's face almost made him laugh out loud, but he settled for a shrug. Glancing around, he noted that there were others who had not heard this half-secret either, judging from their expressions.

"Dun talk about it much," he said as an explanation.

He looked down when he felt a tiny, fuzzy hand pat his lower arm. Daxter gazed up at him, small blue eyes wide open in half-serious worry.

"Ooh, we gotta keep you and Damas real safe, less we oughta deal with him," the ottsel said, jabbing a thumb at Kleiver. "And then I'm moving out. You hear that, Jak? We're outta here!"

That jibe earned him some smirks and chuckles.

Oh, that would smart in a few months.

"Whutever," Kleiver said, slamming down his mug on the table.

Daxter bounced back to Jak, suspiciously peering at the blond giant. But he was ignored.

"Not much ta say 'bout the trip out there," Kleiver picked back up. "Though we prolly scared everythin' within a mile off."

* * *

It was an amazing sight, probably the first one of its kind.

There had never before been a reason for such a grand scale attack formation in the desert. Warfare in the wastelands had always been a guerilla type affair from all sides. Every now and then the marauders would try a bigger attack, but they never had the resources for anything of what Spargus could amass. Instead, the bandits had always chosen to depend on singling out smaller groups of wastelanders.

Neither had Spargus made use of its full force like this before. Its enemies were scattered across the vast landscape, and moving a big troop anywhere meant leaving another place dangerously vulnerable. The city itself should always be the top priority, its walls the most valuable thing in all the wasteland.

Which was exactly why any king worth his salt would condemn the current behavior.

Hundreds of armored vehicles roared across the dunes, whipping up a thick carpet of dust above the dormant sand. Each and every car loaded with fighters determined to have their leader back or revenge for him before the night arrived.

Kleiver really would have wanted to see Seem's face when the reality of the situation dawned on her. Unfortunately, the size of the wastelander army made them visible from quite a distance – giving the monks' leader enough time to get her bearings straight long before the first Ram Rod tore into the sands and stopped a few yards away from her.

She and her troop of face paint lovers stood annoyingly calmly before the immense fighting force, despite the wreckage around them. Behind their backs, the old city ruins spread out in its dead silence – all leaper lizards long since having fled.

There was hardly anything left of the vehicles Damas and his guards had been traveling in when they were attacked. Sticking out of the sand were only a torn piece of metal here and there, a part of a broken tire. But no signs of gigantic paws digging into the ground.

This was not the work of metal heads. Only humans had been here lately, humans who harvested all the spoils they could gather.

That, at least, allowed for some tension to be dropped. Still…

A little ways to the side laid a few hills of sand, each marked by a carefully placed rock. It showed that the monks had been at work.

Kleiver did a quick count of the fresh graves as he hopped out of his car for a better look, frown deepening further.

There must have been some prisoners taken, unless there had been bodies that the monks had not been able to find. He turned to see Seem striding towards him, and didn't even bother to ask as she held up her hands and called out, much louder than her voice seemed capable of. Even through the growl of arriving cars, she managed to be heard pretty well.

"We could not find Lord Damas' body!" she announced.

A pleased huff escaped Kleiver and his grim face cracked up in a wicked grin. Behind him, the news was called backwards through the entire army. Voices rose and fell, the information and hopeful cheers mingling with the engines' roaring.

"Good enough," Kleiver said.

He narrowed his eyes at the dips and crevasses still visible in the sand, gaze running across the signs of battle until he set his eyes on the strings of tracks leading around the edge of the ruins and then turning westwards. A lot of single trails from vehicles joined around the battleground, proof of how the marauders had come at their prey from several directions. However, they all headed off in one single direction.

That was definitely not the way to the temple, which would have been the way Damas and his company would have come. Those trails came from the southeast, skidding into the places they had been overtaken.

Satisfied with the briefness of the ordeal – and lack of further comments on Seem's stuck-up part – Kleiver climbed right back up into his car. Eyes still set on the trail ahead, he raised a massive hand through the bare frame of the vehicle and waved at the drivers behind him.

"Let's go marauder hunting."

He stepped on the gas and took off in a new cloud of dust without even looking back.

The monks remained where they were, and as if the dainty men and women were surrounded by an invisible shield, the army parted around them and the spoils of the battle. No comment was made, no pale mouth parted to join the war cries. But even though her forehead creased as she gazed at the warriors, Seem pressed her palms against each other and closed her eyes in prayer to the precursors for victory. Silent and grim, the other monks followed her example.

They remained so until the last cars had passed. Once that was over with, the monks went to look for their leaper lizards, all of which had run off in a panic when the rumbling had grown too frightening.

That was a detail about the whole situation which Kleiver would snigger at later, when he happened to hear about it. For the time being however, he wouldn't have cared if he knew.

He was too busy being annoyed with the trail disappearing.

There was something very anti-climatic about the whole thing, even if he hadn't really believed that things would go smoothly. The marauders were desperate for weapons and people, but they were not stupid.

The trail leading away from the battleground only remained intact for about two miles, turning further south. For a while, it seemed to be heading towards the shoddy and normally abandoned marauder fort. But then all of a sudden, the track disappeared in a patchwork of new trails, turning the smooth dunes into a layer of Haven cheese. (As in, considering the quality of that cheese, the only difference between it and this part of the wasteland would be that the cheese was vaguely more edible, and never came in such quantities.)

The bastards had turned this into one hell of an operation.

But the fact that they put so much work into covering their tracks could be yet another indication that Damas was still alive. Still, it may just as well be a simple safety precaution. Whether Damas still breathed, wherever he was, the bandits had reason to expect some kind of countermeasure from Spargus.

Hopefully though, they had not counted on anything of this size.

The army had stopped on his signal, more people than Kleiver standing up in their cars and shadowing their eyes to get a view of the situation.

The patchwork covered an impressible area ahead, but several collections of car tracks then took off in various directions from it. Attempts at distraction. One of them did continue towards the distant fort, but it didn't take much thought to conclude that that would be a too obvious setup.

Kleiver paused for a moment, dropping his hand to rub his stubby chin. This was starting to look annoyingly much like something that may need a bit of tactic. As large as the Spargus army was, he didn't really like the idea of dividing the force – when they found the marauders he wanted a quick, brutal fight. Even now Damas' life could be dangling on a thin thread, and it would only be worse as soon as the enemies became aware of what was heading their way.

Actually, it would have to be a miracle if they didn't already know.

Time was too precious for this.

Kleiver turned around to shout an order about dividing into smaller groups, when somebody in the second row of cars, higher up on a sand dune, called out and pointed. A cloud of dust was coming from the west, heading straight towards them.

How intriguing.

"Hold yer fire!" Kleiver shouted.

For good measure he raised his hand in a warning sign when the cloud rose up above the dunes ahead and turned out to be caused by a marauder car, the driver and passenger both waving at the army.

If those were real marauders they ought to deserve a stupidity prize.

But as they came closer and halted a few yards away from the leading Ram Rod, it became apparent that neither of them followed the marauder dress code. Instead of armor and masks they wore simple, torn shirts and pants, with only dirty strip of cloth wrapped around their heads to protect them from the sun. The passenger even turned out to be barefoot when he stood up on his seat, holding a hand to the backrest for support.

"Why Kleiver, for such an ugly mug I can't say I'm sad ta see ya!"

For a moment, Kleiver just squinted at him, going through a mental list of vaguely familiar faces. Finally one name stuck.

"Gadd, was it?" he said. "Thought ya kicked the bucket last year."

"Argh, please."

Gadd rolled his head back, then straightened up and shook it.

"Whatever!" he said, waving at the driver. "Me an' Kert here just managed to worm out 'cause Damas got all the marauders so scatterbrained, security got lax. But I think we better head back in with you peeps and get our Lordship back before they feed him to the birdies."

Kleiver eyed the two of them, pondering it only for half a second. On one hand, they were wastelanders lost in raids, not ever banished. Though he couldn't account for either's past record further than that. And on the other hand, they had both been supposedly enslaved for quite a while.

But they were wastelanders.

"Hn."

The mountain of a man sunk back into the driver's seat, rocking the entire car.

"I'll let ya lead, but if there's any funny business ya know what to expect!" he called.

"That stung, man," Gadd shouted back.

There was a twinge of honest hurt at the suspicion. Kleiver didn't care. He just turned the wheel and followed the marauder car as it did an U-turn and headed back towards where it had come from. Car by car, the army got back in motion and continued the wave across the desert.

They continued westwards, leaving the small inland sea and the marauder fort behind. Instead of heading that way, Gadd and Kert led Spargus' people towards the southwestern mountain range at full speed. At first, they only seemed to follow the track that the lonely marauder car had left behind, but after a while their path joined with an older track from a group of cars. It was at that point that Kleiver's slight frown started to ease up again.

They reached the cliffs within minutes, roaring along the side of them for a while, further south. But then suddenly, a hand went up in the marauder car, signaling an approaching stop.

Kleiver had already spotted the gaping hole in the cliffs before he pushed down the brake. What remained of a fake stone block laid cracked in front of it, showing that the escapees had made it out with a bang. More wasted resources for that marauder car.

A little less amusing were the tracks that went out of the hole, then made a sharp turn and went back in just about where the army now was slowing down.

Hunters sent after the refugees, who had spotted the gigantic cloud of dust and turned tail.

Now they definitely knew.

Gadd stood up in the car again, waving at the tunnel opening.

"It turns wider further in, and then it's a tunnel system," he called. "There's no way we can get all the cars in there. Want us to go in first with some scouts?"

"Nah."

Kleiver picked up his gun, switching to regular ammo instead of peace maker. Those kinds of blasts were seldom a good idea inside caves.

"Let's take a risk."

He stood up and turned to shout at the others.

"Block the entrance and prepare to charge on foot, kiddies!" he roared. "You in the back stay here and guard the place!"

Yet another thing Damas would (hopefully have a chance to) kill him for later on. Kleiver really couldn't remember when he had so much fun last. He waved at a close by group of vehicles.

"You, follow me in yer cars. We'll soften them up for the others."

Without even looking around, he let his car roll forwards to the marauder car. With a simple jab of his thumb he ordered the two escapees into the Ram Rod, and they immediately climbed up.

"So, Damas still peachy?" Kleiver said as they started towards the cave entrance again.

A couple of other cars slid up beside the Ram while the men talked, but more vehicles than that could not make it through the gaping opening in a row.

"He was when we last saw him," Gadd grimly said, looking ahead. "Dunno though, it was a while back, when they just brought him an' the others in."

"Heh."

Kleiver threw a glance at the other passenger.

"And ye? Givin' us the silent treatment?" he sharply said.

There was a grunt in reply, and Kert opened his mouth slightly. One glance, and Kleiver let out a snort as his only comment to the sight. His two passengers tried not to wonder if it was the kind of snort that said "overkill…" or "good idea". Regardless, Kert sunk back into his seat, narrowed eyes gazing ahead. He couldn't speak anymore, but he'd damn well get some payback for what had been done to him.

They entered the darkness, headlights turning on. Behind them, the choir of engines began to die down as warriors leapt out of their cars to follow the leaders on foot. But any counterattack would have to deal with several rows of armored cars first.

When the wastelanders broke into the end of the tunnel and into the cavern the marauders used as a parking lot, only half the waiting cars there were ready to charge back – armored men were still running like headless chickens towards many of the empty vehicles. Kleiver didn't even bother to warn his passengers about holding on. He simply crushed down the gas pedal and made perfect use of his car's name as he plowed through the first uneven line of defense.

The surprise of the attack was already shaky and even before he was crushing past the first couple of cars, the marauders were desperately firing back at him and the other vehicles.

But the whole army was incoming, far larger than this bandit clan.

* * *

"Made for some damn good fightin'," Kleiver said.

His wicked grin found support in chuckles all around the bar – quite unpleasant ones, too.

"What about Damas?" Jak asked, fingers drumming against the table before him.

He almost winced when Kleiver glanced at him, the fat moustache tilting upwards just the slightest bit more. The impatience was duly noted. The way that the walrus of a man took a deep, slow gulp of his beer proved that beyond necessity – drawing it out and only smirking wider when Jak's eyebrows sunk deeper.

Sig noticed it too, and opened his mouth to speak. He was cut short by a wave of Kleiver's hand.

"Hold yer yakows, nanny-boy, I'm not done," Kleiver said, slamming his mug into the table.

Sig rolled his eye again but let it drop.

With all attention restored to him, Kleiver gave a disinterested shrug.

"Lotsa stories 'bout Damas here," he said, throwing a warning glare around the room. "I'll tell ya the truth, people. When we got in there, he was down in a pit and fending off a few stingers with a stick."

The metaphorical glove dropped and the room exploded in return. Fists hit the tables, chairs hit the floor and protests hit the air.

"Hey now, I heard-!"

"That's not-!"

"Don't give us that-!"

"Shut up!" Kleiver snarled back at everyone.

He didn't follow up on the attack against the entire bar however, but turned to one of the warriors sitting beside him and started to argue.

And in the middle of it all sat a handful of perplexed people who had not yet heard the rest of the story and thus could have no opinion. And Sig. But he decided to lean back, cross his arms, and shake his head at it all.

After a moment, Jak reached out and tapped Sig's arm. Catching on, the dark skinned wastelander leant towards the blond youngster and his fuzzy pal.

In retrospect, the only thing stopping Daxter from being in the middle of the shouting was his sore throat and lack of knowledge of what the heck was going on.

"It's about what you think Damas can handle!" Sig shouted, having to raise his voice over all the other noise.

He avoided glancing at Jak with too much amusement. It may have been interesting to see the hero stand up to defend his newest mentor, however.

Though on second thought, interesting as in "probably not quite healthy".

Another few moments passed, during which the unenlightened began to catch up on one important fact – the shouting was not really angry. Listening and looking at the more animated than agitated participants, it actually seemed to be an argument between (sane) supporters of different sport teams.

Kleiver finally cut it off by slamming down his fist into the table several times, roaring a demand for silence. The argument died down into fading grumbles, but the rebellious air remained intact. This was completely ignored by the storyteller, who settled back in his chair.

"Ye can scream all ye want," he said. "I was there and there were a few stingers. No more. Got it, _ya inbreeds_?"

"I still heard it was a grunt he killed," somebody surly said, supported by a few agreeing murmurs.

Daxter seemed to take this as his cue to finally break his own silence. It had dragged on for an awfully long time. Seriously!

" _How_ do you kill a grunt with a _stick_?" he asked, as loud as his throat allowed.

Each word was masterfully coated in disbelief – something the ottsel found to be an unpleasant mistake when Jak glared at him and Kleiver grinned vague approval.

"Ye don't," the huge man said, as pleased as he could bother to be.

"It was a staff," a new voice dryly said from the back of the crowd.

This comment turned every head that was not already facing it, causing almost everyone sitting down to rise.

Unlike when Kleiver had made his entrance, people did not have to actually push so much at each other to let this man through. They still did however, almost falling over each other trying to make way for Damas.

Jak immediately abandoned his chair, even though Damas seemed intent on remaining standing when he reached the central table. However, the King threw a glance at the young warrior and then moved to take the offer of a seat, smiling slightly.

When Daxter hopped onto Jak's arm and climbed to his shoulder, he had to bite his lower lip not to laugh at the near hypnotic interest shining in the big blue eyes. If Sig noted it, he too remained wisely silent about it.

"I can't believe all of you are still arguing about this," Damas said with a shake of his head. "I could hear you from outside."

He sat back, waiting a moment for people to settle. Chairs were picked up and the listeners reassembled, the silence loaded with electricity. Finally, the king spoke.

"Now, if you don't mind..." He pointedly glanced at Kleiver, who simply scoffed. "... I will tell you what really happened."


	4. Chapter 4

The cell was just little more than a hole in the wall. To Damas' left, the way he had entered was now blocked by a crude door made from rusty iron bars. If it had not been for the armed guards on the other side, and if he wasn't still tied up like an animal, he could probably have been able to get it out of the way.

To his right, the hole ended in an uneven wooden trapdoor in the wall. Light filtered through the cracks, its flickering quality indicating more torches. A murmur of human voices and the sound of many, many people moving about also made it through, half muted by distance and the wood. There was also a hollow echo to the noise. Whatever was out there, it was in a large area.

Damas had a suspicion about what awaited him, but he had not asked. And none of the marauders dragging him to this cell had felt like sharing.

The only comments he had heard for quite a while were mockery about his own lack of struggle as they brought him down here. If anyone recognized it as an attempt to save his strength, they didn't say anything about it.

Damas felt quite sure that he would use every last ounce of stamina he could muster, very soon.

He sat still, eyes closed and doing his best to ignore the smug mutters and jeers from the guards. Focusing on his breathing and the tiny trickles of light seeping through his aching body.

The eco was nearly exhausted, but there was just enough to ease him up and remove most of the pain. A slow process it was, one that took a great amount of concentration to muster. He was not as good at this as his forefathers were said to have been. But if he could just have a little more time, he should be… not good, but well enough to put up a fight again.

The cell was dark, the air heavy and filled with the choking smell of mould. Outside, the murmur of hundreds of voices grew louder in excitement. People who had not quite known, or believed, were being informed by their friends.

Damas breathed in through his nose, out slowly through his mouth. Trying to forget that he faced a pathetic death.

Breathe in.

Sig would have to quit his search to take care of Spargus. With that, Damas' last hope for his son would be unable to keep up the search.

Breathe out.

Was this supposed to be the end of Mar's legacy?

Breathe in.

What Praxis started all those painful years ago would finally reach full circle.

Breathe out.

A bitterly amused chord struck, and for a moment Damas thought that if he ever told this story to anyone – in the afterlife, it would certainly be – he would at least have enough pride left not to let these thoughts slip. But nobody knew what he thought now, alone and waiting for whatever his enemies planned for him.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

There was no eco left. He leant his head against the hard, dirty wall. Nothing more he could do, now.

He could not have sat like that for more than a minute before his solitude was broken. With a heavy scraping, the metal door opened.

"And hurry up!" one of the guards snarled.

Damas glanced aside, just in time to see a slave woman pushed through the opening. She stumbled, glaring over her shoulder with her teeth bared. The guards threw a couple of curses at her, standing just outside the door to make sure nobody could flee.

She spent little time on rage, however, quickly turning back to the prisoner. The anger fell flat from her face, replaced by nothing but an agonized despair.

"Your Lordship…"

She mouthed it, stumbling forwards blindly, falling onto her knees by his side.

Damas watched her, not responding.

Another familiar face, another name he could not recall. But her failing anger made him feel sick to his stomach. Any shred of remaining resistance against her captors, shattered at the sight of him like this.

He could not hate her. Only that idolization - it was not what a King of Spargus should be. Had he only managed to become something so precious, so vital to his people, he must have failed to raise their spirits.

If they all would react like that to the loss of him, nothing could be more dreadful.

"Let me…" she croaked, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He straightened up, turning to let her reach the ends of the ropes on his back. Her fingertips and blunt nails brushed his back as she worked on the knots that held him fettered, some little pulls frantic and others forced patient. The guards threw in a harsh demand for speed when they thought that the work was going too slowly.

Finally the ropes trapping his arms fell, and Damas rolled his stiff shoulders while the woman pulled the rough cords to the floor. Silently, she reached further down and started on the knot holding his wrists bound.

If the marauders were letting the ropes be removed, they could not intend to simply execute him. It was not much of a surprise, but in the end it may only mean that he got a few more minutes to live. It all depended on what they planned.

The ropes loosened and he shook them off, bringing up his arms in front of him. Holding back a sigh of relief he grasped his right wrist to massage some feeling back into his numbed hands. Blood rushed through his veins, violently prickling, but it would fade soon enough. He felt better just being able to move again, even if it did not solve anything in this situation. The guards held their swords ready, blocking the small exit perfectly well.

They still feared that he may try something.

Damas could have curled his lips in a wry smirk if he had felt like bothering. Even knowing that there was too little space in the hollow for him to get any leverage, they were still nervous. But they could and would cut him down as soon as he got close.

He glanced at the other exit. The noise remained, but it had settled down into a steady murmur in the last few minutes.

The woman beside him remained silent and unmoving until he turned to look at her again. Then she turned her head a little to the side, as if to look at the guards even though she did not crane her neck far enough for that.

Suddenly, she flung herself forwards, wrapping her arms around his neck. Damas didn't pull away, though his naked eyebrows shot upwards. The guards guffawed at the desperate display – but her whisper was far from distressed. Close to Damas' ear and hardly more than a breath, it could not reach the guards.

"We're trying something, please stay alive as long as you can, Your Lordship!"

Damas' expression did not change. He merely lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement. His heavy heart suddenly felt a lot lighter with the ray of hope, and more importantly with the realization that the woman's meekness had been merely an act.

As suddenly as she had embraced him she pulled back, quickly removing a small flask from her belt.

"Water…" she muttered.

He looked at her for a moment, fully understanding that the bottle probably contained all of the water her captors allowed her for the course of the long, hot day. She looked straight back however, dejected expression cracking in a wild grin.

_I'll be free or dead by sunset._

There was no mistaking that look. He had seen it many times.

It was difficult not to answer with the same expression – the guards would notice and as skittish as they were, they would get suspicious.

Without a word Damas accepted the flask and quickly gulped down the meager amount of warm water. He finished it just when the trapdoor began to open from outside, lifted upwards.

The guards took the chance to order him who had been a King around, growling at him to get out there. They were a little late however, because Damas was already getting to his feet. Handing the empty bottle to the woman, he gave her a brief nod in thanks and then turned to walk outside.

He knew what it was before he had stepped into the audience's sight, and kept the muscles in his face under perfect control.

This was supposed to be some brutal kind of poetic justice, wasn't it? The wasteland's favorite kind.

The door slammed shut with a loud bang, leaving him trapped inside the arena.

It was nothing like the one in Spargus, much smaller and nothing but a wide circle of stomped sand and earth. Light came from bonfires and torches, leaving the far off ceiling in obscurity and throwing dancing shadows all around.

High walls separated the ground from the three rings of people sitting high above, looking down on the lone man. His entrance only raised the noise, catcalls, threats and snide shouts raining down.

On the opposite end of the wall from the trapdoor was a much bigger opening, covered by another crude door made of iron bars.

Something moved in the darkness beyond, something that had a glowing, egg-shaped orb on its head. And it wasn't alone. That much Damas could tell that much even from his distance. He bit back a curse.

A sudden call from above made him turn his head quickly.

"Hey, old man!"

* * *

Damas paused, letting out an annoyed breath.

"I'm thirty-five," he said.

Reaching up he tapped his wide scalp and flicked a white braid.

" _This_ is for having subordinates like Kleiver."

"Feh!" the mountain of a man scoffed over the hardly subdued snerks. "Wif' all due respect, lordship, you were gettin' them white hairs when you came here."

Damas leant back, gazing at the ceiling as he folded his arms across his chest.

"Yes," he said. "But then I met a lot of people like you."

He rocked back suddenly, slamming his palm into the table. Large parts of the audience recoiled in surprise, both at the sudden violence and the glare the King threw around.

"People who leave Spargus defenseless for half a dozen prisoners!"

"Says the guy who'd'a been eaten by stingers if we hadn't come along," Kleiver said, taking a calm gulp of his beer while everyone else were still taken aback.

Damas gave him a hard look, but then threw his gaze towards the ceiling and sat back.

"You gotta cut 'em some slack, big man," Daxter piped up after clearing his throat. "It's just a sign that everyone likes you more than Kleiver." He thumbed his fuzzy chin. "Of course, that isn't saying much."

When Kleiver growled, the ottsel just idly shuffled a little farther away. The blue eyes had caught sight of Jak's face, causing Daxter to grin and jab his elbow towards his best friend's hand.

"Now look who wishes he'd been there, eh?" Daxter said. "Ooh, them poor marauders…"

Jak blinked and tried to compose his fascinated look into a neutral one. As usual with his expressions, however, it worked neither too well nor quick enough. He threw a half glare at Sig when the big man lightly punched Jak on the arm, chuckling agreement.

The tension dropped completely as people cracked up in chortles and concurring murmurs from those who had not been present in the battle. Those who had been there, of course, only grinned at the complaints.

Jak caught Damas' eye in the middle of it all. The stern look was gone as the King watched the young warrior, replaced by a glint of approval.

Of course the King of Spargus did not disapprove of his people's loyalty. It was simply a matter of the city, the people themselves, being more important than the lives of a few.

They all knew that.

It made it perfectly alright to rush out and take a risk to save those precious few. That was what separated them from Haven. And their King from the usurper.

But of course, Damas would never admit that.

Looking at the King now however, Jak was reminded of a question that had risen in his mind when Damas talked about his imprisonment. More specifically, the mention of the meager healing process working through his tired body in the cell.

Though Jak really wanted the story to continue, the new curiosity got the better of him.

"Are you a white eco sage?" Jak asked, waving a finger at his own hair to make a point of Damas' pure white braids.

The room fell silent as people heard the question and turned their heads towards the king in renewed interest.

The corner of Damas' lips twitched the tiniest bit.

"Not quite," he said.

He held out a hand, palm up, and narrowed his eyes. A flare of white eco flashed upwards from his palm, curling into a misty orb floating in the air above the King's fingers. He caught it as quickly as he had created it, snapping his fist shut. The light disappeared back into his skin without a trace.

Somebody didn't like to show off but did it just once to make a point. It was enough to cause a few whistles.

"There have always been powerful channelers in my family," Damas said. "I have some abilities."

He quirked a bare eyebrow at Jak, lip tilting further upwards. _You are on a different level._

But the King would definitely never say that aloud.

"Whichever the case," he started instead, throwing a glance around the room, "you will simply have to believe me regarding the rest of the story."

* * *

"Hey, old man!"

The leader of the marauders grinned down at Damas. He leant over the side of the wall's top, from what the prisoner could see sitting in a rough-looking chair adorned with claws and fangs.

In the next moment the marauder raised his hand, holding up a plain wooden staff.

"Look alive," he sneered, flinging the very basic weapon into the ring. The jeers exploded into cruel laughter.

Damas caught the staff in one hand, turning his head quickly at the sound of grinding gears. The iron bars on the other side of the ring crept upwards. The creatures inside snarled, annoyed and confused – and more angry than usual.

At that moment, the fallen King of Spargus allowed himself to mutter a string of words that would have made even Kleiver blink. Especially with such expressions leaving Damas' lips.

It did not matter now, anyway.

But, he was, or used to be, the King of a people who made "survive" a way of life every day. And with the slave woman's words in mind, he damn well would stay alive for as long as he could. Just to piss off the audience, if nothing else.

He took the staff in both hands, raising it to the height of his chest and moving his feet further apart to prepare for the first attack. His opponents lumbered into the light – metal head grunts, and two of them.

Catching metal heads were a difficult matter. How many prisoners had these creatures already devoured?

They did not even seem to exchange a glance to confirm a plan. Instead, they simply began moving in different directions along the wall, intending to surround Damas. Normally ones to attack swiftly and brutally at the first sight of a human, they seemed to take some pleasure in the loneliness of their intended victim. Their rage was still apparent in their growls, but there was also a speck of interest now.

The bars clattered down.

Damas clenched his fingers tighter around the hard wood. He had not fought with a staff in years, though luckily it had been part of his training a long time ago.

And if you're really trying, you can use even the simplest weapon to kill anything.

Or at least, Damas knew that he could hurt them. But to do that, he couldn't let them attack him on their terms.

Patience has its place, and this was not it.

Taking in a deep breath he rushed towards the grunt moving in from the right. It reared up on its legs with a snarl, the sound mingling with the roar of the marauders.

Damas ducked under the sweeping claws and whipped out the staff in one hand, striking the grunt hard across its upper, unarmored legs. It shrieked in fury, stumbling. Spinning around Damas caught the back of its knee with a kick, sending the metal head to the ground face first. From the corner of his eye he saw the other grunt sprinting towards the fight, unwilling to be left out.

Two of them at once would be too much.

The fallen grunt started to push itself upwards, but Damas would not let it. Leaping onto the furious beast's back he managed to knock the air out of its lungs, and while it was still confused he continued the downwards movement. The staff fell out of his hands and bounced against a dark, flailing arm. Damas no longer cared about the weapon. Crushing his foot down between the metal head's shoulder blades, he grabbed hold of the beast's head and twisted for all that he was worth.

A disturbing but satisfying crack answered him.

The metal head slumped, silent. The cheering stopped.

Half a second later the skull gem popped free and fell into the dust, even as the grunt's flesh began to dissolve into dark eco. With a few quick steps Damas moved out of reach for the dark substance, trying not to stumble.

One could wonder if the now dead beast, its friend, or the audience were the most surprised. Even Damas himself could hardly believe that it had actually worked, though his arms burned from the force he had used to make it so.

The stunned silence did not last long. The remaining metal head roared on top of its lungs and charged. Seeing this, the marauders caught themselves and shouted enraged approval to the monster.

Not until he snatched up the staff did Damas realize that he had cut his fingers on the first metal head's helmet. He tried to ignore the sharp sting, even as blood seeped from his grip on the staff and formed heavy drops. It was a minor pain in compare to what would be if he could not bear it.

The metal head's hard lips parted and it hissed in delight at the sight of blood. In the next moment it was over its prey, rearing up to attack.

Damas raised the staff to catch the heavy hand sweeping downwards, but the blow sent a bolt of pain through his arms. His hands flared, the pain distracting him – he had no chance to avoid the grunt's second strike. With a backhand to his side it sent him to the ground.

The staff hit the wall with a sharp clack. Gasping for breath Damas rolled and got up, pressing a hand to his stomach. He staggered backwards and the grunt lumbered after him on all four, no longer rushing but moving at its own leisure.

Cat and mouse, now. Otherwise it would have used its claws a second ago.

The audience was delighted.

Blood from Damas' fingers smeared over his rough tunic. The cloth was sturdy, but hardly protective enough. The pain burnt intensively, but at least nothing seemed to be broken. If he could just catch his breath for another precious few seconds, adrenaline should be able to override the pain.

It was only a question of how much the grunt felt like playing with him.

As if reading his thoughts the metal head lashed out again, but Damas ducked backwards and avoided it. The motion held no grace, he had yet to recover.

He needed to get the staff back, it was his only means of defending himself. With the grunt practically standing on the weapon, however, retrieving it would not be possible. He had to get his opponent further away.

The pain, while not fading, had at least begun to grow bearable. Perhaps there was a little bit of eco in his body which he could not control, that still worked its healing power on him. Whichever the case, Damas did not straighten up but kept backing while still clutching his side.

The grunt opened its mouth in a slow hiss, licking its fangs with a dark, slimy tongue. It followed Damas, stepping further away from the staff.

Suddenly the beast leapt forwards, forcing Damas to duck to the side. The metal head followed him quickly, forcing him towards the wall. The moment his back touched rock Damas flung himself aside, and claws slashed the air where he had been. He dove, snatching the staff from the ground and continuing several steps by momentum alone, hearing a hard tail clack against the wall behind him.

Spinning around he slammed the staff into the grunt's face. The beast flinched away with a hiss and lost its balance, but Damas had found his. He didn't give it a moment to catch its bearings, but stabbed the staff forwards, right into the grunt's open mouth.

The metal head recoiled in pain, making gagging noises as it went.

Before it had time to get its act together again, Damas had grabbed its head and twisted. The huge body tumbled to the ground.

The skull gem popped free.

Gasping for breath Damas picked the staff back up and forced down the wish to lean on either the weapon or the wall. His entire body throbbed with violent heart beats and he tasted blood from his ragged throat.

The roaring of the marauders did nothing for the ringing in his head.

So, he lived still.

It took a moment before he actually realized it. Even staring at the dark eco oozing around the skeleton, the armor and the fallen skull gem of the second grunt, he could not quite believe it himself.

This should not have been possible. Had anybody ever done such a thing? Mar himself, perhaps. And maybe one or two others who had been in as desperate situations as Damas just had been.

Still was.

The marauders were screaming for blood, for him to be killed by guns and bows right now.

It would be the logical thing to do, now wouldn't it? Damas clenched his teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of him turning to glare at their leader.

If he had looked, however, he may have seen the furious man make a sign. Then, Damas may have been better prepared for what came next – and then again, maybe it changed very little.

Because of all the roaring he didn't hear the hiss, but he caught sight of something black moving and sharply looked up.

A couple of serpentine bodies tore across the arena towards him, and several more were leaping between the bars that had kept the grunts locked in. Damas had no time to even attempt to count them. The first stinger shot into the air, aiming for his leg. But the staff hit it first, sending it crashing into the wall.

The second one latched onto Damas' thigh before he had time to turn, claws piercing leather, skin and flesh.

He couldn't completely strangle the cry of pain, but it drowned in the roaring of the audience. Hissing through his teeth Damas tore the stinger away and to the ground. The pain hindered him from stomping on it, so he slammed the staff into it and staggered backwards. The leverage wasn't enough and he was off balance – he couldn't kill the monster, only daze it. Even as he backed away it rolled back and rose up on claws coated with his blood.

The others shoot up around him, forcing him to keep backing, bit by bit steering him towards the wall. Playing. But they were not as playful as the grunts, skittering back and forth impatiently even as they worked a simple plan.

The roaring of the audience changed suddenly, as the sound of gunshots pierced through the noise. Damas dared a glance upwards, catching sight of men and women armed with peace makers pouring in through a crude doorway by the upper ring of seats.

Not a word passed over Damas' lips, his full focus back on his own battle within half a second. The stingers reared up and he swung the staff at them with renewed strength, sending one flying into two others. It hardly killed them, but at least gave him some space. The others leapt but he threw himself back as well as his leg allowed, narrowly avoiding the lashing tail of the closest attacker.

Doing this he finally threw a glance towards the marauder leader, because he saw a movement in the corner of his eye.

The leader had gotten up, seething with rage and spinning around, drawing his sword. And then suddenly, with his back turned, a violent twitch shook his entire body. Two more followed before he began to fall, more as afterthoughts than anything else.

He toppled backwards, crashing on the dusty ground of the arena. Blood poured into the sand, and he did not move anymore.

The marauders who had time to notice it roared in fury, but most of them were busy trying to meet the onslaught of wastelanders.

"Needin' some assistance, Your Lordship?"

Bullets pierced the air and the stingers shrieked, twisting backwards in death throes. Turning and gasping heavily for breath, Damas met Kleiver's eyes as the huge man took a disturbingly easy leap down the wall and into the arena, followed by three other wastelanders.

Without a word they stepped up around their King, guns held at the ready and their eyes set on the battle above, prepared in case any of the marauders would decide that killing Damas would at least be some kind of victory.

It was worth a sign of weakness. Still trying to catch his breath, Damas allowed himself to lean heavily on the staff.

He straightened up slightly when Kleiver reached backwards without looking around.

"Found this on one'a them bastards, Lordship," Kleiver said. "He di'n't say much when I took it back for you."

Massive fingers uncoiled, revealing Damas' amulet in the palm.

As he grasped the seal of Mar, the King of Spargus silently swore that it would have to be pried from his cold, dead hands by the next person wanting to claim it.

He looked at the familiar symbol for a moment, then turned a sharp glare towards the back of Kleiver's head. His gaze traveled up to the battle on the rings of seats, and finally back to the fat man.

"What the hell are all of you doing here?" Damas snapped.

Looking quite amused, Kleiver threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Saving you, Your Lordship," he said.

"How many of you came along?"

"Y'see, we had a vote…"

" _Kleiver_!"

* * *

The other wastelanders were trying very hard not to snicker by now. Kleiver, of course, didn't even bother trying to hide his grin.

"Yer welcome, Your Lordship."

"And I suppose that wraps it up," Damas said, leaning back in the chair.

Appreciative murmurs from the audience let him know that they were, indeed, impressed. He held up his hands, turning them back and forth.

"I would not recommend trying to kill metal heads like that, however," he said. "I nearly cut my fingers off."

It was probably not by chance that he glanced at Jak at that moment. The young warrior didn't say anything, but the grin definitely said "who me? Wouldn't even think about it". Damas gave a small grin of his own in return.

"Pretty sad you didn't get to wring the leader's neck too, though," Daxter piped up.

This comment earned a lot of agreement from the rest of the room.

"Well, how were we supposed ta' know?" Kleiver said with a shrug.

"I am perfectly satisfied that he got what he deserved," Damas said.

"Stupid goes as stupid comes." Kleiver shook his head with a disdainful snort. "The moron should'a just lopped off yer head. It's what I'd'a done."

The air stiffened in pure disbelief, but Damas only gave his second in command a perfectly deadpan look.

"Thank you, Kleiver," the King finally said. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Yer welcome, Your Lordship," Kleiver repeated, grinning nastily from ear to ear.

Damas rolled his eyes. Then he sat back and threw a glance over the audience.

"Anyway," he said, "that's my version of what happened. Whether you believe it or not is up to you. Now…"

A rare smirk touched his lips.

"Since we're telling stories," he continued, "how about that time when metal heads broke the wall, and attacked again while Kleiver was leading the repairs?"

Kleiver choked on his drink.

"What's the matter?" Damas said, quirking an eyebrow. " _I_ thought it was a really amusing way to break an arm."

Coughing and sputtering Kleiver scowled – as much as respect allowed – at the King. He glared a whole lot harder at those in the crowd who dared to snicker.

"Ooh, what? What?" Daxter gleefully croaked.

"It all started when- oh no you don't."

Damas grabbed Kleiver's arm and pulled him back down on his chair when the huge man made an attempt to leave.

"I think you've been working hard enough lately to take a whole evening off," the king said, teeth showing just the slightest bit in the not too kind smile. "Do stay."

Snarling, Kleiver gulped down his beer and growled an order for a refill. The bartender snatched his mug and quickly returned, placing a mug of something in front of Damas as well.

Those who had been standing until now were fetching chairs during this pause.

This was turning out to be a great evening.

_The End._


End file.
